Apparently, so “they” tell me (and by “they” I mean every parenting magazine I’ve picked up – yes, all three of them over the last 11 years – before throwing it across the room, and websites I’ve accidentally encountered before managing my desire to defenestrate said offending website as it is attached to the rest of my computer) getting the kids involved in cooking the evening meal has loads of benefits.
Including, but not limited to:
- a sense of acheivement and being involved
- maths and number skills what with all the measuring and stuff
- feeling included
- spending quality time with you
- some other learny and educationally type stuff … the list is pretty long
Also, it is loads of fun for them and you get to think of lots of ways you can give them positive reinforncement and say nice things about them yadda yadda yadda. No doubt you’ve heard it all before.
Personally, I prefer a kitchen devoid of all other human and animal life when I’m cooking. But there are moments I do include the kids.
Not necesssarily for the abovementioned reasons. Mostly because I gave into their incessant requests for spaghetti and meatballs and I don’t want to get my hands dirty.
Also, it’s fun for them, and they get to spend some quality time with me, and they learn stuff about mixing ingredients, measuring and some very good life skills. Yep, very educational.
Like, Mummy gets really pissed off when:
- It takes 14 frigging weeks to make a tray of meatballs (learning about time and timing)
- The tray consists of approximately 806 meatballs, off of which are different sizes (maths and sizing) and she is, quite frankly sick of explaining that they need to be roughly the same size so they will cook evenly
- The pasta is cooked and the frigging meatballs still aren’t in the frigging oven, but appear to be on various parts of the coffee machine, the floor and their toddler brother’s head, which is intriguing given he is asleep on the couch the other side of the room and separated from the kitchen by a kitchen sink and breakfast bar …
Also, it’s more than ok to have fun, but when the fun gets to the point of being stupid and there’s raw meat in the vegetable crisper (thank goodness we dont’ actually have vegetables crisping in there, it’s reserved for wine chilling) and behind the clock and the meatballs still aren’t in the fucking oven! then the whole concept of getting the kids to “help” is, quite frankly, out the window of its own accord. No need for a good defenestration at all.
Dinner will be served some time next month.
Still, my hands remained relatively clean …